Searching
by Only Erik's
Summary: Christine finally knows what she wants, but could it be that she knows too late? How difficult is it be to find a ghost? ch5 up
1. Final Choice

This story begins where ALW's musical ends, but let's pretend Christine didn't go back to return the ring.

Some quotes from ALW, you know which ones. 'this' means the song isn't being sung out loud.

"Hurry, Christine! We're almost to the lake!" Raoul cried, tightening his grip on Christine's small hand. They were free! He had let them go! Joy and disbelief pounded through the young viscount's veins. Perhaps the nightmare was finally coming to an end. . .

Raoul failed to notice that his companion was not sharing in his happiness. She followed him, yes, but silently. The glassy look of disbelief that had appeared in her eyes when she withdrew from her phantom's passionate kiss was gone, but tears were beginning to take its place. Her quivering mouth seemed unable to form words.

The dark subterranean lake loomed before the pair, and Raoul ceased his hurried steps. A boat waited at the dock, just as expected. Ecstatic, Raoul swung Christine into his arms. before laying her gently in the boat, "We're free, my love!"

Christine bit back a sob as Raoul rowed, each stroke gaining strength as his voice soared with promises, "We'll be married at once, and you'll have everything you've ever wanted in a wedding. Then we'll go away, wherever you want. Anywhere! Anywhere far from this horrid building. We'll buy a house, a huge beautiful house with a yard where our children can play." His voice grew softer. "And we'll slowly heal, though I know forgetting is too much to ask. Together, we'll mend."

As the boat finally hit the bank opposite the house, Christine spoke. Her voice was soft and unsteady, every syllable reflecting the pain which tore at her heart: the pain of choosing, "Oh, Raoul. Someday, you will have all of that and more. You will have a grand house and beautiful children and a wife that loves you as a wife should, but not with me. I cannot give you that life. I cannot give you that love."

Raoul turned, stunned, "What are you talking about? You said. . .on the roof. . . after all that we've been through. . ."

"I'm so sorry," Christine whispered, cowering from his eyes.

"You're sorry?" Raoul cried, realizing the meaning of her words. "Sorry? Is that all that you can say after all I've done for you? I suppose you'll want me to get out of the boat now so you can return to that- that monster! That is what you want, isn't it? To go back to him!"

"Don't do this, Raoul, please. . ."

"Say it, Christine! Say that it's true, that you love him! That after all he's done, you're returning to him! I want to hear you say those words!"

Christine's tears were no longer silent. Her body shook with sobs as Raoul rounded on her and seized her shoulders.

"Say it!"

"I-I love him and I wish t-to return to him."

Raoul wailed in anguish. He was no longer capable of anger, no longer able to feel anything but horrible grief. Never before had he been rejected, and what cruel irony it was that the first woman to do so was the one that truly mattered. The one he loved. He sat heavily on the lake's edge, burying his tear-streaked face in his hands.

"Oh, Raoul. . ." Christine whispered. It seemed that all she ever did was cause her loved ones pain, for she did love Raoul. She always had, ever since they were children, but now she realized it was the wrong kind of love. He was her brother, her protector, her dear friend, but he couldn't be her husband. Only one man could fill that place, and she'd betrayed him. Oh, Angel, forgive me. . .

Gently, Christine wrapped her arms around Raoul's strong, solid chest. She held him tightly, knowing that this may be their last embrace. His arms found their way around her waist and pulled her close. He'd lost. Clearly, the woman in his arms was no longer his to love. After a final squeeze, he pulled away.

"Go," He whispered, "Or they'll find him before you do."

"Goodbye, Raoul."

"Goodbye, Christine."

Christine touched Raoul's cheek, "You deserve much more than me." With that, she turned away, quickly boarding the boat. She knew she could not row as swiftly as Raoul had, but she couldn't swim swiftly either, at least not in a wedding gown. She remembered her first journey over the lake, how Erik had propelled them to shore with such strong, even strokes. She would always see his eyes, intense behind the mask, watching her face. His eyes, which always conveyed such raw emotion.

Oh, she could still see the way he had looked at her after their kiss! The disbelief on his face rivaled her own shock. Then the sudden wave of despair as he made his decision, a decision he believed would make her happy.

'Take her - forget me - forget all of this. . .'

How wrong! How wrong to believe that she could ever forget him, the man who'd freed her voice and her soul, the man who'd treasured her like jewel, the man who would kill for her. She shuddered. The man who had killed for her. And she had left him, forsaken him to be torn apart by the mob closing in around his secret domain. She had condemned him to death, if not by the mob's hand then by his own broken heart.

As the boat neared the house, Christine began to hear shouts and crashes. She rowed faster, her arms burning.

'Dear God, please don't let me be too late. Please don't let them find him. Oh, God, please!'

Across the lake, Raoul stood, gazing at the boat fading in the mist. Numbness filled him for now, and he found he could not curse his victorious rival.

"Bravo, Monsieur," He whispered, a curious smile playing across his face. There was nothing left for him at the Opera. He was young; he would heal. Slowly, painfully, he would heal. Perhaps he would find himself a love as incredible as the one between the young soprano and the infamous Opera Ghost; perhaps not. Either way, his time here was over. It was no longer his right to stand in Erik's domain.

He turned and began his journey back to the real world. He sang softly to himself as he walked, "Little Lotte let her mind wander. . ."


	2. His Home

Christine leapt from the boat prematurely, thoroughly soaking the hem of her gown. Her mind did not have time to be alarmed by the icy water. She did not have time.

Shouts were clearly audible now, as were the sounds of the house being steadily demolished. Christine's hands fumbled with the hidden mechanism that revealed the door. Erik's hands never fumbled. They were always calm and graceful as they flew across ivory piano keys; gentle as they barely touched her face. . .

'Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation. . .'

The only time Erik's hands seemed lost had been in their kiss. In that passionate embrace it was she who was in control, her hands that guided his head towards her mouth. And yet how much trouble her delicate little hands had caused as they swiftly tore the mask from his face. . . twice. She'd committed the ultimate betrayal when she revealed his horrible visage to the eyes of Paris. How could she have been so cruel?

'Christine, Christine, why? Why?'

She almost laughed at herself. She had hurt Erik in so many ways and left him alone to die, yet she tried to return to him. How could he want her anymore? But she remembered his eyes at their parting, eyes full of unspoken emotion: love, yearning, and immeasurable sorrow. Perhaps the love remained . .

Finally the door appeared from a great piece of concrete wall. Christine's heart burned as she gazed upon the destruction the mob had wrought. This house, in which he had retreated from the cruel world above. . .his home. . .and now. . .now the world had found it. Anything that could possibly be out of place was. Furniture lay overturned; strips of papers littered the floor; jagged shards glass sparkled dangerously. Christine watched as one man cut into the wallpaper to strip it away. Her stomach churned at the atrocities before her. Animals, all of them. Each had completely lost his mind in search of the Opera Ghost.

Amid the chaos was Meg, leaning against Erik's throne with the mask in hand. Her eyes never left the sculpted porcelain. Christine rushed to her side, hoping to dodge the mob's recognition. Not one head turned. They were so caught up in searching for her that they failed to see her right before their eyes.

"Meg, Meg, tell me, have they found him?" Christine grabbed her friend's arm urgently.

Meg lifted her face to Christine's, eyes wide, "Merciful God, you're alive!"

"Hush!" Christine hissed. "I don't want the others to hear. Now tell me, did they find him?"

"I thought you were dead. The minute you disappeared with him off the stage, I thought you were gone forever. We all did. Oh, Christine, how did you escape? And Raoul! Is he hurt? I don't understand!"

"Raoul is fine, at least in body. I will explain everything, I promise, but now you must answer me. Have they found him?"

Meg shook her head, "No. He's vanished, just like a real ghost."

Christine raised a fist to her mouth, "God in heaven, there is still hope."

"I still don't understand at all. . ."

"I can't now, Meg. Time is against me. I. . .," she stopped suddenly, noticing the mask in Meg's hand. "How did you get that?"

"It was on this chair covered in a cloak," Meg replied, gesturing to chair she'd been leaning against. She watched as Christine lifted the cloak to her cheek tenderly.

"Meg, may I have the mask?" Christine whispered, silent tears cascading down her face. Though taken aback, Meg obeyed. Trembling slightly, Christine clutched both mask and cloak to her chest with ragged breath. Her mind raced: what did this mean? Why would he leave the mask? Never had she known him to be without it. . .

Meg studied her friend. As curious as Christine's actions were, they were not without a great deal of emotion. The desperate way she clung to Erik's belongings led Meg to draw a single conclusion, "You love him, don't you?"

"Am I so easily read tonight?" Christine smiled weakly, and the shadow of a laugh came from her throat. "Both you and Raoul seem to have realized what I feel faster than I ever did."

"So, I'm right then?"

"Yes." Christine whispered. "I love him. . ."

"But, he's done so many terrible things. He's killed!"

"For me!" Christine cried. She lowered her voice hastily, "All that he's done he's done for love of me. I know his crimes, but if only you knew what has been done to him."

"Nothing justifies murder!" Meg hissed.

"Meg, I have to go. . ."

"I can't let you! What if he hurts you? I would never forgive myself."

"He would die sooner than hurt me."

Meg bit her lip, "Oh, Christine, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"No, but I love him, and nothing can change that. Nothing."

"Then you'd better hurry," Meg said.

Suddenly Christine's face looked unbearably tragic, "I've no idea where to look. I can't very well be search here, but this is the only place I would think to find him. He's a master of illusion, Meg. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Certainly he'd want to be found by you."

"Oh, after what I've done to him? I wouldn't blame him for never wanting to see me again," Christine sighed.

Meg touched her arm, "Love is not that fast to die."

Christine absently ran her hand over the smooth white mask. She hated that mask now - it held such painful memories. She was no longer afraid of the twisted face that the mask had once concealed; she only feared losing the man who that face belonged to. She swore to herself that once she found Erik - for she knew in her heart that she had to find him - she would smash the mask before his eyes. Slowly she rose to her feet, "If they ask you about me. . ."

"I will lie horribly," Meg finished.

Christine smiled softly, "Good girl. Goodbye." With a swirling of skirts she fled from the house, ducking her head from curious eyes.

Meg watched her friend's retreating frame and whispered, "May God be with both of you tonight."

Christine stopped once outside the house, glancing around hopelessly. Where could she look? She did not doubt that he was hidden in an ingenious, impossible location. The only thing to do would be to search every corner, every corridor, every box. Every box. . . She had not thought of that before. . .

With fresh hope and determination, Christine pulled her angel's cloak around her shoulders and tucked the mask away. Then up she flew - up the stairs that led to her dressing room, up to the Opera house, up to Box Five. . .


	3. Lost

Some ALW quotes, one Leroux. Some Kay influence.

'Tears of hate!'

Oh, Christine...

'Swear to me, monster...'

Monster...

'Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime...'

Christine, Christine. Oh, God...

The wind was relentless, the night bitter. Cold, harsh, black. Forsakening.

Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered. Because it was over.

Over...

Erik stood on the roof of the Opera, a lone black figure against a blacker night sky. He had vanished only a step ahead of the mob just like the phantom he was said to be. And who would look for a demon somewhere so close to heaven?

A forceful gust of wind collided with his bare face. He'd left the mask in a nearly poetic gesture – all that would be left of him was that cursed piece of porcelain. He assumed that they were still searching for him, aware they would not go about it gently. If you can't destroy the monster, destroy all he owns. But they were too late; he'd been destroyed.

Erik clenched his hand into a tight ball, trying to make the physical pain stronger than what tore at his heart. All the agony he'd ever inflicted was being returned to him ten-fold. He loved her with every ounce of his being, but that was why he had let her go, wasn't it? He could not truly love her – and force her to stay. That wasn't love. He finally understood what was, and it was killing him.

He knew he would certainly die from this. How could anyone know this burning empty numbness and live? Oh, Christine. You gave me real joy; it is only justified that I should have real pain, too. His eyes stared into the vast city before him, but Erik only saw the cruel recording of memories. He had proven himself a monster in front of her eyes. But why had she done it? Why expose him in front of the world? Could he really humor himself into thinking that he wouldn't have stolen her away if she'd not ripped the mask from his face? No. And why had he done it – taken the place of that Piangi? Killed him. Erik shuddered at his own capabilities. Even he could not fathom all that he had done. He said it was for love of her, that was his reasoning, but was it? Yes, yes he loved her. He who had never known what it was to be loved recognized the feeling in himself. But he never loved her like he did at that moment...

'...God give me courage to show you, you are not alone...'

That kiss! The warmth of her body against his. The feel of her tears upon his face, his hands on her slender hips. Her knowing embrace. And, most incredible of all, her eyes. They had not held fear or loathing...they were full of...of what?

And then she was gone, carried off by the hero, with the creature left to be slain. It was how it should be - happily ever after for the handsome prince and fair maiden. Their world would go on, even if his would not...

And that was the issue, wasn't it? Would he go on to live another day without her? No. Even if she were not there physically he would hear her voice everyday. He would see her shadow on every wall, smell her perfume in every breath of air. Every voice that drifted down to him would be hers for a moment, and then he would curse himself for mistaking anything for her perfect melody. He would go mad dreaming of her and then die. Alone. But wasn't that how he'd always known it would be? Doomed to be alone...

There was another way, a faster, simple way that had hung before him his whole life, taunting, tempting. Suicide... a word like a lullaby. How many times he'd contemplated taking his end into his own hands! But he never had. Every other sin, he had been taught, could be forgiven, but only hell awaited those who ended their own lives. But hell was all that awaited him if he lived...

Erik neared the roof's edge. He stopped abruptly as tears blurred his vision. Wouldn't want to fall while preparing to jump, would we? He almost laughed at the thought. Never before had so much welled up inside of him at once. He had always prided himself in his intelligence, but now Erik felt truly lost. What could he invent to free himself now?

Another strong wind whipped past him, nudging him away from the edge, as though it knew what it was doing. Erik knew that it didn't, but what was that feeling that told him to obey?

Hopeless, Erik sat heavily. He needed time, and he had as much as he could want. He could almost here the mob below him, chipping away at the walls of his hidden house.

No, no one would look for him near heaven...


	4. Shattered Hope

Christine broke down when she discovered Box Five to be empty. The shattering of her last hope knocked her from her feet. The thread keeping her rooted snapped. She collapsed, listening as her sobs invaded the silence.

"What do you want me to do?" she cried, her words barely understandable. "Oh, God, tell me what to do." She buried her face in the nearest curtain, "I love him so much. Don't take him away from me."

What was it, this intense...thing...inside of her? Oh, it burned! Pain like nothing she had ever known surged in full glory. Dear God, is this what he felt? Did Erik feel this? It was so vivid that it made her body writhe in pain. She let herself fall completely against the floor, her fingers digging viscously into the carpet.

"Papa," Christine moaned, "Papa, please bring him back. Please. Send me my Angel of Music again. I know who he is now, I do. Please..."

Suddenly Christine shot up. She stared wildly at a chair in the box. He'd sat in that chair. Perhaps it is magic...perhaps it leads to him...

She realized she was losing her grip on reality. Mind reeling, she slumped back onto the floor. No, the only magic had been in the kiss, in him. There was no magic in Box Five. Box... Oh, God it was a box. A horrible, tiny, shrinking box. Christine couldn't breath. Everything was spinning. She needed to get out, but her legs were useless. The taste of tears nauseated her. Frantically, she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled out the door.

Christine began to walk, seeing nothing but a blurr. She turned a corner and found herself staring at a wild-eyed woman wearing a beautiful cloak over a rumpled wedding gown. She blinked and saw clearly the mirror's frame. So that was what the famous Christine DaaÈ looked like in the ocean of desperation. Her reflection frightened her. She stared at it intently, wandering closer to the shimmering glass. Transfixed, she ran her fingers over the image of her cheek. She didn't recognize the crescents under her eyes or the harsh blotches on her face.

But she was really concerned with what was behind the glass.

Are you behind this mirror, too? Angel? "Angel?"

A whispered echo of "Angel" mocked her. It was the final breaking point. Christine felt something new push her pain aside. Rage and frustration vibrating through her, she screamed and began to pummel the glass version of herself. She hated the horrible, ugly mirror; she hated the sound of her meek voice in her ears; and most of all she hated herself. The crack of the glass resounded like music. The throbbing in her hands only urged her on – it almost rivaled the pain in her soul. Horrid, horrid pane of glass! What good have mirrors ever done?

One led you to him...

Trembling and panting, she pulled back. Now she saw one hundred versions of herself instead of just one. She stared in disbelief at her bloody hands. What had she just done? What was happening to her?

She jumped at a sudden noise. Distant voices were quickly becoming less distant. Christine realized that her outburst must have been a noisy one. Terrified, she turned and ran. It occurred to her that if they only saw the cloak, they may shoot on the spot. The thought pleased her in a way. Dying didn't seem so horrible at the moment. What could be worse than knowing the man you love was right in front of you and you let him vanish? She felt like Juliet. Didn't she kill herself in the end because she had been separated from her one true love? Christine understood what she once thought had been rash and insane. Perhaps it was still that. Perhaps she didn't care.

Christine's movements became deliberate. She was headed towards the roof, just as she had with Raoul so long ago. Had it been six – seven months? It felt like decades. Now the roof held a promise again. The night air could help her regain her head, help her breathe. Or if not, it was the opportune place to play Juliet.

Geez, they're all suicidal, aren't they? Well, it's phiction - gimme a break!


	5. Think of Me

OMG she's alive! Yes, that's right an update! I know it's short and I'm so sorry because anyone still reading this deserves a longer new chapter. I have my ideas for what's next though...

I also went back and slightly revised the other chapters. Happy reading!

Christine shuddered as she stepped into the darkness above the Opera. Had that much time really passed? It seemed that a moment ago it was dusk, and the curtain was about to rise for _Don Juan Triumphant_. And now, her eyes could already catch shades of blue on the horizon, heralding the approaching sun. Christine scolded herself; why should she be surprised? Since when had Erik's world conformed to standards of time? Underneath the Opera, there was no time – only music. And him.

But Christine had chosen the real world, and in the real world, there was darkness.

A sob caught in Christine's throat as her mind whirled once again with bitter regret. He had offered her eternity, immortality, magic – and she had run away. Shivering, She fiercely pulled at his cloak only to find that no amount of tugging warmed her. She looked off toward the roof's edge. The idea suicide both terrified and thrilled her, filling her with a strange sense of opportunity. Anything to be free of this churning pain. Yet, she scolded herself for such weakness. Erik had lived a life of pain, and he'd fought through it. His eyes filled her mind – those searing eyes.

Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world. . . Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore. . .

A violent wind whipped Christine's hair against her wet face, stinging her cheeks. The cloak swirled wildly around her, and she feared dropping Erik's mask. Slowly, delicately, she freed it from the cloth. Her eyes traced every inch of the white porcelain. Mindlessly, she began to run her fingers over the smooth surface. She gently stroked the edges, precisely fashioned to frame his face. Transfixed in a half-dream, she allowed a melody to slip from her lips.

"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. . ."

Christine was sure he would think of her, but in hatred or love?

"Though it's clear, though it was always clear, that this was never meant to be. . ."

Her voice died – she couldn't go on. The wind caught her words and carried them away, but she'd heard the truth of what she'd sung. She resolved to never sing again, if she did choose to live past tonight. Her voice had been his gift, yet another she never deserved.

Christine clutched the mask to her chest. A mask and a cloak – all she had left. And one fading hope.


	6. NOTICE

Hello all!

This phic has MOVED! So have I!

New location: http/ 


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